Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/cambria-gordon/page,6,580810-the_poetry_of_secrets.html
Papá stood abruptly, nearly tilting the bench backward. “Benita, let’s go.” He gestured at the girls. “Isabel, Beatriz, now.”
“But I haven’t cut the honey cake,” protested Señora Cohen.
“We’ll eat our dessert at home. Benita made two,” said Papá.
Yuçe, Rachel, Beatriz, and Isabel exchanged sympathetic looks. But they were powerless to change anything.
Out on the street, Isabel was shaking. She wanted to cry for the way her innocent baby brother’s name was used for adult gain. For Señor Cohen’s preposterous superstitions. For how someone could hurt another human being in such a way.
And yet as they walked back in silence to their comfortable house in their clean neighborhood, a small voice inside her whispered questions she had no answers for. Did Mamá and Papá truly want to go back to being openly Jewish like the Cohens? Or did her parents enjoy the status of living as conversos so much that they preferred to have it both ways?
On Monday, the sun had not yet risen to its apex as Diego began another tedious day of tax collecting. Already, his memories of university were disappearing. He could not remember the exact shade of the leaves on the trees in the quadrangle. Was the green more like silver coins or fresh grass?
Abraham ben Mordohay, the Jewish bottle-maker, stepped out from the back of the store, wiping his hands on his apron. Soot and dust covered so much of his face that only the whites of his eyes stood out. “Buenas, your most excellent lord.”
Diego flinched at the title. He was no lord. But the formality could not be helped. The lower classes always addressed the titled nobility as lord.
“How is your family?” asked Diego.
“Bien, gracias. My daughter is going to be married.”
“Enhorabuena. And business, it is good?”
“Sí,” said ben Mordohay. “I’m finishing up a large order for the Perez vino tinto.”
“I know it well. Quite delicious.”
Ben Mordohay fidgeted with his hands. “Em … I … already paid my rent this month, your lordship.”
“Of course.” Diego berated himself for not bringing it up earlier. He’d gone and made the man uncomfortable. “I’m actually here for the alcabala tax. The special levy for the war with Granada.”
“In that case,” began ben Mordohay, “let me gather the money. It’s in the back.”
“The amount is one thousand,” called Diego.
Ben Mordohay returned, handing Diego the paper currency. Diego counted it. There was just nine hundred maravedis. He was short.
Ben Mordohay averted his eyes.
Diego’s father would not have hesitated. He’d have this poor man killed right here and now. But what good would that do? Who would take over this business? Ben Mordohay’s new son-in-law, who probably knew nothing about making bottles?
Diego patted the bottle-maker on his hand. “Thank you. The count will be pleased.” Later, Diego would take the balance out of his own purse, using the allowance his mother had slipped to him before he left for school.
“Don’t tell your father,” she had said. “He doesn’t need to know.”
And the count certainly didn’t need to know that part of the Jewish bottle-maker’s taxes included money that came from his very own household.
It was just a small act of rebellion against his father. But it was something.
Diego exited the shop to a litany of bows and thank-yous from ben Mordohay, and went next door to the bookbinder. His was one of the last Jewish shops, other than the bottle-maker’s and a few others, that still remained outside the Jewish quarter. This was not a business visit. It was a diversion. The binder owned the land where his shop stood, passed down through his family for generations, so there was no rent to be collected, just the alcabala tax for the war effort, which Diego had collected last Friday. Diego wanted to inquire if any illuminated manuscripts had arrived from the docks over the weekend. Ships from as far as Tripoli, Ceylon, and Quanzhou arrived daily in the port of Cádiz, containing spices, fabrics, books, silver. But lately, it seemed all the treasures were going the opposite way, leaving the country, as if these objects of art and literature—like their Jewish and Moorish owners—no longer felt safe in their homes.
“Buenas tardes, Isaac,” said Diego upon entering.
Isaac lifted his head from a document, then lowered his looking glass. “Back so soon?”
“I was just next door, and wondered if there was anything new I might look at.”
“I’m going to have to start calling you Señor Curioso.”
Diego grinned, wishing his own father would call him by a term of endearment.
“I’ve got something you might find interesting,” said Isaac.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “But we mustn’t view it here.”
Diego followed Isaac downstairs into a storeroom carved out of the floor. He thought he saw an exit, or at least another pathway dug into the back of the room, but he couldn’t be sure. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Strewn on the long center worktable were half-bound covers in silver and leather, sheets in groups of four folded into quires. A sheep’s skin hung drying near the wall, the first stage of making paper. Pumice stones for rubbing parchment thin and smooth were piled in the corner. The air felt stifling in the dim light. Isaac pulled down a makeshift trapdoor, loosely covering the opening above them. Dust rained down and Diego sneezed.
“Jesús,” said Isaac.
“Salud is fine,” mumbled Diego. Isaac was trying to adhere to Christian customs out of respect for Diego, but Isaac was a Jew, not a converso. There was no reason for him to have to say the name of the Lord. Christians believed a little piece of your soul left the body from a sneeze and needed an extra blessing for safety. But Jesús was not Isaac’s Lord.
The binder lit an oil lamp, holding it up to a book that lay open on the table. Diego gasped. There were bright peacocks and waterfalls on one side of the page, while the other side depicted four men in red robes and triangle hats, playing some sort of game. In between the illustrations were strange letters in black script.
“It’s absolutely exquisite,” said Diego.
“It’s a megillah. It contains the Jewish story of Purim. This edition is over one thousand years old, at least. I’m about to wrap it up and send it to the docks. If all goes according to plan, this book will set sail, safely nestled in a crate bound for Salonica.”
Diego gently ran his finger down the gilded edges. “What are those men playing?”
“Dice. In truth, it’s dreidel, a Jewish game, but they don’t want the king’s men to realize this or they will be arrested.”
Diego stared at Isaac. “It’s always been like this for the Jews, hasn’t it? Living two existences in order to survive?”
Isaac’s eyes were downcast. “I’m afraid so.”
Diego shook his head. “It sickens me.” He looked at the book with longing. “Shame I can’t borrow it for a day. I’d like to copy those peacocks.”
“Your father would burn it,” said Isaac. “And possibly do worse to you.”
It wasn’t just the books that were in danger. It was the people who read them, and who dealt in them. Sadly, Diego knew from his father that it was only a matter of time until all Jews would have to give up their trades and people like Isaac and the bottle-maker next door would have to find other ways to feed their families.
Diego tried to imprint the colors onto his memory, the malachite green and orpiment yellow of the peacock feathers, the vermillion of the robes, the azurite of the water. “Thank you, Isaac, for showing—”
“Hello?” came a female voice from the front of the shop.
Isaac quickly closed the megillah and threw a tattered tapestry on top of it. “I’ll be out in a moment,” he called.
Again, the dust tickled Diego’s nose. “Achoo!”
“Jesús,” said the female voice.
Did he smell roses?
Diego and Isaac made their way upstairs to the main counter of the shop. A girl stood before them. Her auburn hair was tucked into a knitted cap, but there was so much of it, it threatened to tumble out around her shoulders like the waterfall he’d just seen in the book. Her marigold-colored dress was simple yet elegant. Though a partlet covered her low neckline, he could see a glimpse of skin just below that, as pale as the moon. He kept his gaze straight ahead, though he wanted to look lower.
Her eyes blinked once. “It’s you.”
“Me?” said Diego.
“Rather, I thought you looked like someone. From the other day.”
“I am someone,” he said, amused.
Her accent was atypical. Not nobility, but not commoner either. She tucked a hair back into place. He wanted to be her fingers. To know what her hair felt like between them.
“Are you apprenticing here?” she asked him.
Diego gave a deep laugh. He wished.
The girl turned her face away.
Perhaps she thought he was being haughty? “You misunderstand,” he began.
“Master Diego was just leaving,” said the bookbinder, all business now.
Did Diego see her eyebrow go up at the mention of his name? Now that she knew who he was, he felt at a disadvantage.
“Until next week, Isaac,” said Diego. He tipped his hat to the girl. “Señorita … ?”
“Perez,” said the girl. “Isabel Perez.”
“What an arrogant young man,” said Isabel when he left the shop. He was the same person she had followed the other day. She was sure of it. And this fact flustered her, so that she could do nothing else but act insulted. His green eyes, now that she could see them straight on, were so penetrating, it had felt as if they might sear her.
The binder said nothing. “How can I help you?”
With great care, Isabel removed the scroll from her satchel and handed it to Isaac. “It’s my grandmother’s. Well, not exactly hers. It belonged to her grandmother, and quite honestly, I don’t know how far back it goes. Can you tell me what it says?” Now that she had the precious manuscript in front of her, she felt calmer. She blinked and the effect of the boy’s arresting eyes floated away. She was eager to hear any details this man might give her about what her grandmother had kept hidden all these years.
Isaac put on gloves of beige kid leather that looked soft enough to eat. Then he unrolled the parchment, placing small weights on all four corners of the paper.
“It’s Arabic. Perhaps twelfth century or earlier. I would venture to say the scribe could be from Andalucía. See that decoration in the upper right corner?”
Isabel peered closer.
“It’s a rudimentary pomegranate, the symbol of Granada.”
How beautiful. She could almost smell the lushness of the south. It made her recall a line she’d heard at the poetry reading:
“The perfumed fountains of Granada exploded in fragrance of citrus,
filling bedrooms at night with dreams of orange suns.”
She had transcribed it into her notebook because it was so evocative.
“Is it a love poem?” That very same poem had taken a turn to the sensuous, with the second speaker comparing a woman to a blossom on an orange tree.
“I’ll need more time to find out, I’m afraid,” said the binder. “I have a Moorish colleague who might be of help.” He paused. “If I get it translated, do you have someone to read it to you?”
She ground her teeth together. “That won’t be necessary.”
It never ceased to infuriate her, the way people presumed she was not lettered. She recalled the day she and Abuela first began their lessons. Papá had brought home a world map a few weeks prior, given to him by one of his wine customers who had just returned from a sea voyage. The shapes of the landmasses with their fancy, calligraphed locales enthralled Isabel. Everything seemed so exotic, made more so because she could not read the names on any of the continents. She sneaked down to the cellar every day to pore over the map. Until one afternoon Abuela followed her.
Abuela had leaned over Isabel, smelling of milled wheat and honey. She pointed to some tiny dots on the map. “Do you know what that is, mi nieta?”
Isabel shook her head.
“Those are the Faroe Islands,” Abuela explained. “And that’s the Empire of Tamerlane.” A sprinkle of flour from Abuela’s hand fell onto a big country in the lower right section of the map.
Isabel turned around. “Will you teach me how to read the words?”
“I was waiting for one of you girls to ask! I fear the only way to get your sister to read is if there were words printed on the fabric of her new dresses.” They both had laughed.
During their learning sessions, the letters of the alphabet seemed to float above the parchment like tendrils of smoke, arranging themselves into rich meaning. From then on, the dank cellar ceased to frighten Isabel. It always reminded her of that moment when she finally cracked the code. After she mastered the maps, she demanded books, though the only ones they were allowed to have in the house by law were religious in nature and rather dull. One day, when she was thirteen, Isabel was walking with Abuela through the Moorish quarter. While Abuela bargained with a spice merchant, Isabel picked up a book of poems in a tiny stall next door. One page and she was hooked. It was the language of love. Romance and secret trysts. Oh, to be cherished like that by a man someday! Forget religious rapture. That was the bliss Isabel longed for.
Back in the bookbinder’s shop, Isabel looked at Isaac, with his ink-stained hands, surrounded by books and old manuscripts, as well as pearly white paper, pumiced smooth to receive new ink from a scribe. He did not know how lucky he was. “Do you, by chance, have something to write with?”
Isaac reached below his front counter, placing a turkey quill and small glass vial of dark ink in front of her. He tore off a scrap of used parchment, handing that to her as well. She dipped the white feather into the black liquid and, in proud, unmistakable script, wrote down her street address.
“Please send word when you have something for me.”
To take a coffee or not? Diego had one more tax collection out in Plasencia, a two-hour horse ride northwest. It was getting dark. Brigands would be in the hills waiting for anyone riding by with something to steal. He had fought off his share of thieves. Even used his dagger once on a man who had reached his grubby hands into Diego’s purse in Lisbon. The bandit was no match for Diego’s height and powerful arms. Protecting his coins did not worry him as much as not seeing that exquisite woman again. Isabel Perez. Standing at the edge of the plaza mayor in front of a café, Diego pondered what to do. The alley that led to the bookbinder’s shop had no exit. She would have to walk through the plaza. Perhaps he’d linger just a few more minutes.
He could have any girl he wanted. In Lisbon, he’d certainly had his share. Women he paid for, and some who gave of themselves for free. Then why could he not rid himself of the contours of Isabel’s cheekbones? Her face was new and familiar at the same time. And that smell, roses. He sensed it everywhere, taunting him.
Shouting came from behind him. He turned to find a brawl starting in the middle of the plaza. Two men—one bearded and in rags, the other upper-class by the look of his slatted sleeve—circled around each other, like a toreador and his bull, kicking up dirt. The man in rags grabbed a bottle from a nearby table in the plaza and swung at the well-dressed man. The rich man drew his sword. Diego pushed through the small crowd, hoping to stop someone from becoming seriously injured. But before he could get to the center, the bottle made contact and the aristocrat fell, blood beginning to form a sticky circle on the back of his head. He struggled to get up, but the ragged man struck again.
“Halt!” came a booming voice. “Halt, I say!”
A heavyset gentleman, clearly the alguacil from the officer’s uniform he wore, huffed over to the brawling men and pulled them apart.
Diego offered his assistance, but the warden seemed to have contr
ol over the situation. “It’s not the first time this beggar has caused us problems,” he told Diego. He held the raggedy man in a choke hold while motioning for the owner of the café to bring some wet towels for the man on the ground, who was moaning. The alguacil whistled for his horse, which was standing nearby, then he easily threw the man in rags sideways over the saddle, tying his feet together. The beggar grunted in protest.
Seeing no need to remain in the middle of the plaza, Diego returned to the café. Suddenly, he smelled roses and looked up. The girl, Isabel, was making her way straight to the ruckus. His feet vibrated. He set about to move toward her, to protect her from the blood and this unsightly scene. It would be the perfect excuse to speak to her again.
But the alguacil had the same idea. He got to her first. They exchanged words. She tried to peer around him to see the fallen man, but the alguacil gripped her arm and prevented her from doing so in a way that seemed, to Diego, too harsh. Then he put his hand on the small of her back and led her away, out of the plaza, with the possessiveness of one who owns another.
Diego could do nothing but stand in the dust and watch them disappear around a corner.
Days later, after an early breakfast of biscuits and sheep’s cheese, Isabel found herself with a few moments alone in her room to compose. Beatriz had gone to fetch cookies from the sisters at Convent San Clemente, her regular chore before church on Sundays. Serving the recognizable pastries if guests came calling was just one more way to show they were a good Christian family.
Her leather notebook lay on a slightly slanted narrow desk, two small metal weights on either side to hold it open. There was a pot of gall ink beside it. For his ledgers, Papá and Isabel mixed their own ink from gallnuts, white wine, and green vitriol, which they gathered from the ground after a hard rain. Add to that some dried-up sap of the acacia tree, and it thickened to a nice black substance, perfect for writing.